had to carry the short-legged Baggy along.
“Listen to me, Bags. This whole bird infatuation? It’s not going to work out. Examine the facts. She’s a bird. You’re a mammal. She won’t touch meatballs, and not to shock you, but birds lay eggs, buddy boy. Also, they don’t curl up on blankets. Were you aware that they molt? You’re from two different biological universes.”
Baggy licked Cy’s chin, and Cy imagined he saw an inner conviction dawning in those vague canine eyes. “So we’re straight on this? It hurts, I know, but some things can’t be overcome.”
Truth was, he was lying to Baggy. Deep down, he still wanted to believe the human spirit was strong enough to get through any difficulty. Not conquer it, necessarily. His father’s love of an incurable alcoholic was proof of that. You just loved on through the mess. He still believed it, fool that he was. Piper’s face swam up into his mind before he shoved it firmly back down.
Nester Lodge waved at him from the doorway of his Brew Unto Others coffee shop and bakery.
Cy stopped in and declined a cup of coffee, enjoying the aroma of Nester’s freshly baked blueberry scones. Several older women in matching yellow hats chatted noisily over their breakfasts. “Any news yet?”
“Nah,” Nester said. “Sharma’s two days overdue and she’s climbing the walls.” He lowered his voice. “She’s getting testy.”
Cy nodded sympathetically.
“The pregnancy books say aromatherapy is helpful, so we’ve found some lavender essential oils, and she carries a peppermint tea bag in her pocket to sniff. Peppermint is calming, you know.” Nester fingered his long beard, twirling it into an anxious point.
“Is that working?”
He shook his head. “Hasn’t kicked in yet. That’s why I come in early to the shop every day. Say, I hear you’ve got a renter.”
Cy goggled at the speed of the Tumbledown gossip mill. “Yeah? What do you know about him?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“What should I know about him?” Nester asked.
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?” Nester raised an eyebrow.
“Right. I’ve got to go to Julio’s and the hardware store.”
“Cuz you’re gonna renovate the River King?”
Nester heard a lot for a guy who was hiding from his pregnant wife and running a hole-in-the-wall bakery. “Something like that. See you later, Nester.”
On his way out, he held the door for two more ladies sporting yellow straw hats. He figured it was some sort of convention.
His next stop was the bookstore, and Julio Mendez greeted him with his usual effusive welcome, extra chins wobbling.
“Hello, my friend. Welcome to the shop. It’s been a good long while since I’ve had the pleasure.”
Cy felt the minutes on his three-week deadline ticking by. “Julio, I’m in a rush and I need your help, seeing as you’re the president of the historical society.”
Julio straightened to his full five foot three and smoothed his bulging shirt front. “Copresident, to be precise. Mrs. Mendez is the president on paper.” He delivered the last bit in hushed tones. “How may I be of assistance?”
“I need to know everything there is to know about the River King.”
“The paddle wheel steamboat currently docked in our fair cove?”
“The same.”
Julio closed his eyes. “Maiden voyage in...?”
“1927.”
“Four decks, steel rudders, two boilers and a twenty-six-foot stern wheel?”
“Yes. Used for many different purposes over the years.”
“Indeed,” Julio said, speeding off down the aisle. Cy scrambled to catch up. “As soon as the River King came to dock in our waters three months ago, I began collecting volumes about the rich history of paddle wheel steamboats. Monarchs of the river, you see.”
“I figured you’d be up to speed.” Cy trotted along behind, accepting dusty books. Baggy followed his own trail through the labyrinth of shelves. Since the books were alphabetized by authors’ first names, Cy had no earthly idea where to help look on the shelves. Julio did not need help anyway, and Cy had a half dozen volumes in hand when the bell on the door chimed, then chimed a second and third time.
“Excuse me, won’t you?” Julio said. He returned to the cash register.
Cy figured he had enough to get started. Hefting the load to the front of the shop, he found a dozen or so yellow-hatted ladies milling around. One squatted down, her hand extended.
“I think it’s a dog,” she was saying.
Baggy was at his perky best, skinny tail whipping back and forth. He beamed his one steady eye at the crouching woman.
“Yep, he’s a dog,” Cy confirmed.
The lady gave Baggy a scratch behind the ears. “Knew it. Is he yours?”
“I think it’s more like I’m his. He was abandoned.”
Her brown eyes grew troubled, deep frown lines forming on her face. “Unforgivable. People can be animals.”
“Agreed. I’m Cy Franco, by the way.” He gave her a hand up, and they shook.
“Florence Jenkins, but everyone calls me Flo.” Her straw hat slipped, and she crammed it back over her waves of silver hair. “Nice to meet you and your unusual dog.”
Cy took in the ladies, who seemed to be mostly in the fifty-and-up crowd. “Are you all staying in Tumbledown?”
“As a matter of fact—” she started.
One of the taller women called out. “Girls, we’ve got to go. Bus for the pumpkin patch tour leaves in five minutes.”
Cy was impressed that Sid Crawford, who owned some hundred acres on the outskirts of Tumbledown, had managed to put together a tour that would interest the assembled ladies. Sid wasn’t exactly a people person, but perhaps his son had realized that harvesting tourist dollars took even less effort than growing pumpkins.
Flo waved goodbye, and the ladies departed in a yellow storm.
Julio wiped sweat from his brow. “Good to have tourists.”
And it was. Tumbledown was an easily overlooked spot south of Half Moon Bay. Even folks lured in by the newly docked River King probably headed straight for the bigger towns to spend their souvenir money. In a matter of months, the hordes would descend on the annual Half Moon Bay Pumpkin Festival, for which Sid would provide his best specimens. Tumbledown
